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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951021">it was like we were already lovers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/seravphim/pseuds/seravphim'>seravphim</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Fluff, Inspired by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Jealousy, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Non-Linear Narrative, Smut, i... do not know anything abt france's geography dont @ me, like if youve never seen the movie u should still be able to understand whats going on, you dont need to know anything abt eternal sunshine i dont think??</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:40:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951021</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/seravphim/pseuds/seravphim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The first time Grantaire sees Enjolras, it is a moment that poets spend their foolish lives trying to describe.</i><br/> </p>
<p>// eternal sunshine of the spotless mind au. after a two year relationship, grantaire erases enjolras from his memories, prompting enjolras to do the same. the surgeons don't tell him that while they're erasing his memories, he'll be reliving them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>it was like we were already lovers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi friends i made a <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/15Qy7l2rk6eRkgw6D7pE4r?si=UnULx9u5SqSshYcWBjeEjQ">playlist</a> based off of this fic/kind of just enjoltaire in general, check it out if u like :^)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>“I’m yours if you’ll have me, but regardless, you’re mine.”<br/>
-Lana Del Rey</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The first time Enjolras sees Grantaire, he knows that he is in for the worst. It’s hard to expect good things when the first you see of somebody is them beating someone into a bloody pulp. It's harder to expect good things when you can't pull your eyes away from the disfigured mess left from the chaos of a nice, solid fight. It’s impossible to expect good things when you wish you were that disfigured mess so that you might have the pleasure of brushing that tender flesh, the Apollo’s belt, the navel, that strip of skin innocently twisting above the hips. A duffel bag sits at the edge of the boxing ring spelling GRANTAIRE in angry green lettering across the front pouch. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>That’s not fair to him, admittedly. Grantaire might have been the pacifist out of the two of them, if there ever was one. But in a boxing ring, everyone becomes a sadist. The first time Enjolras sees Grantaire, he can smell the blood on his knuckles and he wants him to carve his fist into his stomach and relish how it fits. Bahorel claps a sweaty hand on his back as he watches him pummel another man. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Enjoying the show?” He asks. Enjolras can feel himself redden. He hands him a stack of papers as he briskly turns away from the ring. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Sorry, Bahorel, I know you don't like to do this stuff here but, look - I really need you to do this for me on your way home, okay? It’s for the rally this week.” Bahorel nods and takes the papers, then leans in close. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“I don’t mind, Enj, but I think you should</em> really <em>get g-”</em></p>
<p>“Bahorel!” <em>A voice calls out behind them. “Where’s the gauze?” As Bahorel mutters a quiet </em>shit<em>, Enjolras snaps back around and makes his first eye contact with the boxer.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>The first time Grantaire sees Enjolras, it is a moment that poets spend their foolish lives trying to describe. The first time they make eye contact, the words are sucked out of him like oxygen through a tube, chaos muffled around them like an apology for being too loud. Directors write whole movies to capture moments like this. A bead of sweat drops from his nose, the last remnant of a violent dance. A helpless smile cracks over his face, a boxing glove falls limp at his side, Enjolras is haloed by the cheap and dismal lighting of the gym, and that is the first time Grantaire sees Enjolras.</em>
</p>
<p>“Backrooms,” <em>Bahorel shouts back in a voice stern enough to pull the two of them out of the heavy daze they had fallen into. Grantaire knits his eyebrows at Bahorel’s sudden change of tone and scurries off, but not before flicking one last glance at Enjolras, grinning as he turns away. </em></p>
<p><em>“You</em> really <em>need to go,” Bahorel advises him,</em> “Right now.” <em>Enjolras just blinks at him but obeys, not wanting to miss the bus ride home.</em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>If fate is real, then fate resides at the fourth stop during Enjolras’ ride home. Don’t get it twisted - Enjolras is far too independent for fate, so if it resides on the fourth stop then Enjolras won’t hesitate to stomp it to death beneath his boot (he is wearing black boots he can’t remember buying. The sort of black boot that mysteriously makes its way into your closet, it seems). God's will has not met Enjolras’ will.</p>
<p>But miraculously, Grantaire resides at the fourth stop alongside fate. When the bus pulls up to it, he is sitting on the bench, thumbing his phone. As Enjolras exits, he stops on the fourth step of the bus, before Grantaire can notice him, and freezes. It’s him. <em>Him</em>. And his fists are no longer bloody. He exits the bus and sits on the opposite end of the bench, wondering if either of them will mention it.</p>
<p>In his periphery, he watches Grantaire look over once, then twice as he does a double-take. “Were you just at the boxing ring?” He asks.</p>
<p>He gives him a look he hopes isn't panicked and nods. “You’re Grantaire, right?”</p>
<p>Grantaire makes a face at him, half-amused and half-confused. “You know my name?”</p>
<p>Shit, he thinks, because he was trying to be normal and cool and not weird. “I saw your duffel bag,” he says casually. “I’m Enjolras.”</p>
<p>Grantaire nods. “<em>Enjolras,</em>” he tries it out. “Okay, Enjolras, get all the jokes out now.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“All the jokes about ‘Grantaire.’ I know you have them.”</p>
<p>Enjolras makes a face as he wracks his brain. “I don't have any.”</p>
<p>Grantaire hums. “None? Thats funny,” he says. “All my friends call me R. Like, Grand R. Stupid, right? But they call me that.”</p>
<p>“Do you want me to call you R?” He asks tentatively.</p>
<p>He thinks for a moment. “You can call me anything you like.”</p>
<p>Enjolras feels his face go pink. “I don't think your name is weird. I think it’s very nice.”</p>
<p>“<em>Nice,</em>” Grantaire echoes, and he pauses for a moment while he considers him. “Okay, Enjolras. What do you do? I work at the cafe Musain.”</p>
<p>He gives Grantaire a startled look. “You do? I go there, like, five times a week. I wonder why I’ve never seen you there.”</p>
<p>He just shrugs at him. “Well,” Grantaire says, standing up. “This is my bus.”</p>
<p>As the vehicle comes to a halt, he watches Grantaire approach the open doors, walk up the steps all the way up to the top one, until he stops and pivots. “You’re coming, aren't you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>The last time Enjolras sees Grantaire, he is sitting with Combeferre in a little corner table in the back of the musain. Grantaire stumbles in, tugging at the hand of another man. </em>All too blond<em>, he thinks. Scarlett coat, just like his. He doesn’t know what it means when your ex-boyfriend flaunts his new boyfriend who almost looks like you around your favorite cafe, but it must not be good. It hasn’t been two weeks since they broke up.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>He can feel Combeferre eyeing him, ready to pull him back, settle him down, if need be. It doesn't need be. Enjolras is not the boxer out of the two of them, anyway.</em>
</p>
<p><em>It’s hard not to be terrible when Grantaire is fucking someone else. That’s probably not the right term - there's a certain connotation to the phrase someone else, the implication of an original, a betrayal, a person that Grantaire is specifically not having sex with. It’s not really fair to him - Grantaire is just fucking someone, and it happens to not be him. Still, in his Ptolemaic sense of the word, </em>Grantaire is fucking someone else.</p>
<p>
  <em>Actually, there’s no way to really be sure if they’re having sex, but it’s not hard for him to imagine what they get up to. He doesn’t imagine it. He tries really hard not to imagine it.</em>
</p>
<p>There is a betrayal somewhere there,<em> he muses, </em>if only we could figure out who betrayed who.<em> He gives Combeferre a smile, one that says </em>‘it’s okay, really,’<em> and heads out of the Musain with his hands bunched into fists. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. And he doesn’t see him ever again, at least not as he is.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Combeferre is smarter than that. He shoots Grantaire a disgusted look - something he would usually never do, but he knows even Grantaire is better than a cheap blow like that. <em>Boxers always take cheap blows.</em> If Grantaire notices, he doesn’t act like it.</p>
<p>He follows Enjolras out of the cafe, who is stiffly walking home. “Don’t, ‘Ferre, it’s fine -”</p>
<p>“I’ll give you a ride home, Enjolras,” he says. “I don't mind.”</p>
<p>He stops walking and pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing <em>I don't mind</em> is really a command in disguise. “Is ‘Courf home?”</p>
<p>Combeferre shrugs. “Probably.”</p>
<p>He groans. <em>“Fine,</em> okay. But we’re not going to talk about it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Of course they talk about it. They had only found out about his <em>thing</em> with Grantaire a few days ago and barely had time to get <em>those</em> questions answered before Grantaire suddenly snagged a new boyfriend like everything is fine. <em>Maybe things</em> are <em>fine for him,</em> Enjolras muses. <em>Maybe he doesn’t even remember. </em></p>
<p>“You need to tell us these things,” Courfeyrac tells him with a motherly hand on his back.</p>
<p><em>“And not just because we’re interested in gossip,”</em> Combeferre reminds him. “You know you’re not good on your own.”</p>
<p>He feels like a kid again, looking down between his knees, letting his hair fall over his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”</p>
<p>Courfeyrac sighs and slumps down next to him - he can be comforting when he chooses to be. “You’re going to live a very long life and do a million great things. The two years of your life you had with him will not seem so long and devastating forever.”</p>
<p>Combeferre nods, absently leafing through a pile of mail. “You cannot hurt forever.”</p>
<p><em>I could. Grantaire could find a way.</em> “I know.”</p>
<p>“Good, because - <em>shit,” </em>gasps Combeferre, overturning a yellow card in his hand. <em>“Shit,”</em> he repeats, and whatever it is, it must be bad, because Combeferre never curses.</p>
<p>“What's the problem?” Courfeyrac asks, rising up and snatching the letter from Combeferre. “What’s - <em>oh,”</em> his voice drops as he scans the card. They share an uncertain glance and look back at Enjolras.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>Courfeyrac looks disbelievingly back at Combeferre. “He has a right to know,” he says. Combeferre looks like he wants to disagree, but Courfeyrac repeats, <em>“He has a right to know.”</em></p>
<p>“Not legally,” mutters Combeferre, but he’s taking the card back and shoving it in Enjolras’ hand.</p>
<p>He gives them a look and reads the back of the card.</p>
<p>
  <em>To whom it may concern - </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>R. Grantaire has had A. Enjolras erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again.<br/>
Thank you. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Lacuna Inc.</em>
</p>
<p>Enjolras feels like he’s just about to throw up, actually. He rereads the lines on the card over and over again, and each time they make less and less sense. He feels his head spinning, and if he wasn’t already sitting he’d be falling to the floor.</p>
<p>“What the fuck does this <em>mean?”</em> He asks shakily. When they don’t respond, he adds, “And what the fuck is <em>Lacuna Inc.?”</em></p>
<p>Courfeyrac speaks up. “They’re a medical facility that does, uh - <em>things.</em> I heard it from Jehan, who heard it from Montparnasse, and, um, yeah.”</p>
<p><em>“He erased me?</em> You can do that?”</p>
<p>Combeferre steps behind Courfeyrac. “Enjolras, you’re not in the right frame of mind right now. You need to -”</p>
<p><em>“No,”</em> he cuts him off. “I can’t - he erased me? He fucking - he <em>wanted</em> to erase me?” <em>Maybe things</em> are <em>fine for him. Maybe he doesn’t even remember.</em></p>
<p>He doesn’t even remember. “Fuck,” he mutters, stuffing the card into his pocket. “I need to - <em>fuck,”</em> and he’s out their front door. They don't follow him. They know not to. Enjolras is capable of being terrible.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You weren’t supposed to see that,” the doctor - Dr. M, his nametag states helpfully - says calmly. Enjolras is fuming.</p>
<p>“Well, I fucking saw it,” he snaps back.</p>
<p>“And we’re sorry for that,” a moment goes by where neither of them speak, both considering their options. “But unfortunately, Grantaire chose to have you erased from his memory. You have to respect that.”</p>
<p><em>“Respect that?”</em> Enjolras spits out. “Do you even know what it’s like to turn into a stranger in front of someone you’ve - you’ve - <em>do you know?”</em></p>
<p>“This is not an uncommon procedure, sir,” Dr. M assures him. “But very rarely does your situation actually occur.” Enjolras seethes. <em>His situation.</em></p>
<p>“We have some courses of action we can take, though, in this case,” he continues. “We would encourage you to avoid Grantaire as much as possible; if you confront him, he won’t know who you are or what you’re talking about. It’ll only confuse him.”</p>
<p>“Fuck that,” Enjolras retorts immediately. “I spent two years of my life with him, and I can’t even, like, <em>look at him?</em> Fuck that.”</p>
<p>Dr. M presses his lips into a hard line and gives him a pitying look. “I know this is a hard time for you, Enjolras, and we are willing to compensate you for your… <em>loss.”</em></p>
<p>“Loss,” he echoes back. “What do you mean by compensate?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Enjolras has to sign a few contracts before the operation begins. Documents ensuring he won’t sue them, papers making sure he understands the risk he’s taking. He doesn’t mind the risks so much, or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore - <em>cynicism,</em> he thinks bitterly. He just wants to erase Grantaire from his head, wants to unlearn the curves of his skin, wash away the phantom fingers that he can feel tracing his hands, wants to patch up the emptiness that bleeds now that he’s gone. He remembers Grantaire in the cafe, earlier that morning, happy and smiling and blissfully unaware that he had lost 2 years of his life. <em>Happy.</em> And Enjolras can feel tears well up at the memory of him being the one to cause that smile, him being the pretty blond boy that Grantaire would tug along, kiss on the neck, dip fingers down into-</p>
<p>No. There will be none of that. Wipe it off. Bite it down.</p>
<p>He is ordered to go home and return that afternoon with any and all objects that were given to him by Grantaire or that may remind Enjolras of him. He imagines the emptiness that will linger for months in his apartment, all the paintings and old t-shirts and photographs gone. An apartment you’d see in a furniture catalogue, pretty and pristine, devoid of any individuality or originality, a stark clean coffee table, everything organized and neat and the opposite of lived-in.</p>
<p>He returns with three big boxes, all filled to the brim with memoirs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’re placing each object in front of him then taking it away and then replacing it all very quickly, wordlessly, while Enjolras is advised to stay quiet. He is strapped into a big chair, head strapped into a bowl of a machine like a mad scientist's experiment. The doctors are watching his brain react to each object on a screen. “Making a map of memories,” they explain.</p>
<p>A polaroid picture of Enjolras taken one lazy Saturday morning, wrapped in blankets, while the sun poured across his stomach in slats. Sketch after sketch of him, some busy and hurried, others soft and tenderly traced, some of just his hands, some of just his curls. Seven green sweaters he had stolen from him - he would miss those, they were cozy and worn out and smelled like just-out-of-the-shower Grantaire, who was always sleepy and grateful and touchy. A coffee mug chipped around the ring, the one Grantaire always used, the one that had a special place in his cupboard. A purple guitar pick Grantaire had a habit of leaving on Enjolras’ mantle, and in the early days he’d call late at night to come and <em>‘pick it up.’</em> There’s one thing - a pair of boots Grantaire gave him - that he’d left at home. <em>It’s the only pair of boots I have,</em> he rationalizes, <em>and I’ll be damned if I walk around barefoot in the snow this winter because of Grantaire.</em> He watches the objects float by, briefly remembering each story, remembering each time one of them had laughed or fought or kissed each other’s forehead. He realizes, absently, this will probably be his last chance to remember these things.</p>
<p>“Wonderful,” says one of the doctors, looking over a scan of his brain. He doesn’t like to see his brain or think about the science behind it, doesn’t like to know that every emotion or memory of reaction is really just a handful of chemicals, that it’s really all out of his control. “We’ll meet you in your apartment tonight to handle the process of removing this map of memories in your brain. You’ll be completely sedated.”</p>
<p>He nods. “That's it, then?”</p>
<p>Dr. M shakes his head. “Not quite. We require every patient to go through a recorded session with myself, explaining their line of thinking and reasons for undergoing the process,” he says. “It helps us compare the effects of the memory erasure and to collect data that will help other patients.” He’s pulling out a recorder and cassette tape.</p>
<p>“You just… want me to rant? About my relationship?”</p>
<p>“Specifically, the parts of your relationship that brought you to us.”</p>
<p>Enjolras thinks about the ignorant bliss Grantaire must have felt holding that other man's hand and turns resentful as he watches Dr. M flick on the recorder. “Whenever you’re ready, Enjolras.”</p>
<p>He gathers his thoughts for a moment, shutting his eyes while he considers how to articulate it all.</p>
<p>“There are a lot of fucked up things about Grantaire,” he begins. “Grantaire doesn’t give a shit about anything. <em>He’s good for nothing</em> - unless you consider being an asshole a talent.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They didn’t tell him he’d have to relive the memories while they erased them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Here is the story of when Grantaire and Enjolras break up.</em> It’s not a good process, going through the memories in his head in reverse order so he has to confront the most recent memories like a knife in his stomach. In the newest one, the first one he has to relive, the first one they must erase, Grantaire is standing in front of his apartment door, stubbing a cigarette out under his boot. Enjolras remembers this.</p>
<p>The words fall out, already spoken and yet left unsaid. “What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>“Christ, Enj, I’m your boyfriend,” he scoffs back at him. He’s looking past Enjolras’ shoulder, into his apartment. “Can I come in?”</p>
<p>“What do you need?” He asks instead of opening the door. If Grantaire is let into his apartment he won’t shut up until Enjolras either quits working or kicks him out.</p>
<p>Grantaire gives him a blank, gray look. “I just wanted to keep you company. We haven’t seen each other -”</p>
<p>“I’ve been busy,” he interrupts, and no matter how many times they have this argument it’s always the wrong thing to say. “Not that you know how much work needs to go into this protest, Grantaire.”</p>
<p>Enjolras knows what he’s going to say. He knows that Grantaire is going to get defensive and say something he doesn't mean and leave in a fit of rage until he comes back a week later and does it all again. He can see the etchings of a scowl shadow his face, the rumble of a storm before it thunders. <em>Say it,</em> he’s thinking, <em>let’s ruin it together.</em> There is comfort in the consistency of hurt.</p>
<p>Instead, he watches Grantaire’s mouth open and no words come out, like every last distraction has been used up. He shifts his gaze to make eye contact with Enjolras and he watches Grantaire’s face soften - no, not quite soften, it’s more like he watches some facade strip away. He is briefly horrified by the naked vulnerability that has flitted over the other boy, the intimacy in someone else’s wounds. There are only so many hits boxers can take before they fall. He finally speaks up at Enjolras.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Do you still love me?”</em>
</p>
<p>Enjolras has already lived through this. It’s already happened. It shouldn't feel the way it did the first time. He shouldn’t feel guilty again, guilty and defensive like a child throwing a tantrum. “I -” he begins, thinking of how to answer. There is one true answer, and he’s half sure they both know it. Why else would Enjolras have answered the door? But there is a lump of pride in his throat. “Why would you ask me that?”</p>
<p>Wrong answer again. Wrong thing to say. Wrong tone, wrong diction, wrong punctuation, wrong look on his face, wrong ending. There is a catharsis in picking all the wrong choices and watching everything go to shit. Grantaire doesn’t cry how Enjolras thought he might. His gaze goes slightly unfocused, like he’s gone far away from him, and it’s like even if Enjolras crawled inside him right now they’d still be too far apart. Love shouldn’t be a circle that takes you from strangers to lovers back to strangers again.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Oh.”</em>
</p>
<p>Even if Enjolras has done this before, even if this is just a memory, even if he should remember how it goes, he still doesn’t know how to fix it. He studies his sneakers, the brand faded out on the tongue, unwilling to make eye contact. When he finally looks up, Grantaire is gone, and the world has been lost to a haze. <em>They can take this memory,</em> he thinks. <em>They can have this one.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Here is the story of the week before the last time they ever see each other.</em> Grantaire is draped over his couch, watching him work with an embittered gaze. Enjolras can feel him staring, feel his eyes judge and pick him apart, but he won’t put his pen down until Grantaire mentions it -</p>
<p><em>“Apollo,”</em> he breathes, finally. Enjolras pretends to be very disinterested. “Apollo, there are joys in the world beyond your great revolution.”</p>
<p>“Unlikely,” he responds automatically, because he knows what to say to keep the conversation going without being earnest, he knows what to say that sounds less like <em>I want to hear your voice</em> and more like <em>quit talking.</em> “My love is for -”</p>
<p><em>“Patria,”</em> sneers Grantaire. Enjolras likes this part. “You have never blessed anyone with this love of yours. Anyone <em>tangible.”</em></p>
<p>“Not true,” he counters, “My love is for the people of France, R.” He punctuates R with a harshness he can’t control.</p>
<p><em>“I</em> am a person of France,” he states, and Enjolras hates this part. “And yet you don't seem to <em>love</em> me.” There’s an overfamiliar bitterness to it. <em>“Do you ever stop working?”</em></p>
<p>Enjolras sighs. There had been tension all evening, ever since he watched Grantaire stumble into his apartment, half-drunk and full of petitions, and Enjolras had only wordlessly peeled a bottle from his fist. No <em>hellos,</em> no <em>I love yous - </em>just a passive aggressive jab at his bad habits.</p>
<p>“Do <em>you</em> ever stop drinking?”</p>
<p>He can hear Grantaire scoff, doesn’t need to look up to know that he’s rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes exasperatedly. <em>“Fuck off.</em> I wanted to be a good boyfriend, take you out, do a kind fucking thing -”</p>
<p>“You know I don't drink -”</p>
<p><em>“You didn't need to!</em> It would have been my treat, you know, dinner and everything, but I can’t drag you from this fucking table to spend one fucking second with me.” He’s getting up, now, and Enjolras knows he’s going to linger in the doorframe to be drunk and stupid. <em>Half-drunk.</em> It’s worse when he’s sobered up a bit, when the things he barks back are still half-true.</p>
<p>“This is <em>far</em> more important than some petty dinner, Grantaire, you know that.” He knows it’s the wrong thing to say even while it’s coming out of his mouth. He knows. They’ve had this argument a million times, he is fully aware of how it ends.</p>
<p>Grantaire lets out a wry laugh. “I’m the other woman to your dear <em>Patria,</em> am I? We havent fucking - <em>spent time</em> together in a month, you always come back to the goddamn books -”</p>
<p>“Do you mean fucking? Do you mean fucking when you say <em>‘spending time?’”</em></p>
<p>“Come <em>on,</em> Apollo,” he says disdainfully, pet name still slipping out, even then, the remnant of a better time. “If we fuck, you’re back here ten minutes later - if we get dinner, you bring a book - you can’t just be here? Right now? With me?” There is a falter to his voice, the veil of anger lifting slightly enough to reveal a wound beneath it.</p>
<p>Enjolras hates this part. It doesn't always come. The part when he knows it’s all wrong, when it borders on <em>sorry,</em> when he can hear the hurt in Grantaire’s voice and agonizes to know he’s the one that caused it, that moment when he’s stuck between pride and that sickening, horrifying feeling of knowing you’re still in love with someone long after the niceties have fizzled out. The dull ache after the knife had been extracted from the stab wound. Phantom pains.</p>
<p><em>“I need to do this,”</em> he says, turning his head down into his book so he doesn’t have to see the way Grantaire’s gaze will go unfocused with a blank sorrow. The dispassionate acceptance of the pain is far worse than the passionate defiance of it. He hears the door slam behind him as Grantaire stumbles out of his apartment, and he buries his face in his hands and holds his breath, trying to keep the dry anger from turning into wet tears. He knows he is heading back to his apartment, which means he will be alone tonight, and he can never sleep without Grantaire, no matter what state they might be in. The comforting brush of stubble against his neck, the right ankle hooked over his left - he knows he will instead stay up all night thinking about the way his voice faltered.</p>
<p>He bangs his fist against the table, the cold wood uncaring beneath his hands, and lets out a frustrated noise that extracts the tears from the pulsing heat in the center of his face. He knew he shouldn’t have said it. He <em>knew</em> he was going to regret it. But he’s gotten four times more work in the past two weeks than he has in years, and with protest dates arriving soon enough he really does have to sort through his work if he cares at all about the safety of the protestors. He cares about lots of things, but there is only so much time in the day. He is the leader. He does it all.</p>
<p>He hates being around Grantaire now, because he can’t read when he’s around him, he can't focus on anything, he always has a nagging voice in the back of his head telling him to get back to work. Grantaire is a distraction from <em>more important things,</em> or a tempestuous love affair against Patria, or what he never wanted to happen. He doesn’t like who he is around him. He should be the leader. He should be the chief, doing it all, unflinching, unromantic. He never feels romantic unless he’s around Grantaire, and he can’t afford to do that when the stakes are so high.</p>
<p>Like coming out of a fog, Enjolras looks down at his hands. This one feels all new, recent, still simmering from when it happened two weeks ago. He glares down at his book and suddenly can’t read it at all. <em>This one,</em> he thinks, <em>this is a memory that can go. It is good that we are scrubbing all of this out.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Here is the story of dinner at Denny’s at 10 pm when neither of them can afford a nice restaurant.</em> Not that they ever could, of course, but they're at Denny’s on a Tuesday evening because it’s supposed to be <em>date night</em> and it feels like the only thing holding everything together. Grantaire is having pancakes for dinner, extra syrup with a glass of lemonade. He knows Grantaire would rather have decaf coffee, except he knows Enjolras hates coffee. When Grantaire first realized this a year and a half ago, he stopped ordering coffee on date nights so Enjolras could share his drink. Little remnants from a time of bliss. He wonders if it’s just a Pavlovian response now, if Grantaire has forgotten why he doesn’t drink coffee so much anymore. Doesn’t matter. They haven’t spoken in ten minutes.</p>
<p>Finally, Grantaire breaks the silence, which comes as no surprise to Enjolras. “If we went out earlier, we probably could have caught that new flick. The one with Michelle Pfeiffer.”</p>
<p>“I had to work on something with Feuilley.” Grantaire already knows this.</p>
<p><em>“Ah,”</em> he says sardonically, taking a sip of his water. “You know someone commissioned me to paint a mural? On the side of their garden. I was supposed to start it today.”</p>
<p>He shouldn’t bite. He does. “So did you?”</p>
<p>“Of course not, Apollo,” he twists the words out. <em>“Date night,</em> remember?” Enjolras remembers a lot of things. This will be a good memory to abandon.</p>
<p><em>Date night.</em> Couples that call date night <em>date night</em> are couples that have to be reminded that they love each other. They <em>do</em> love each other, make no mistake. They just forget sometimes.</p>
<p>The waiter comes by with the bill, but all the letters are hieroglyphics and the waiter has no face. The cafe is empty now, no other people or tables or flashing neon sign advertising that they're open. The room looks naked, but Grantaire still sits opposite of him, oblivious. The bill has disappeared in Enjolras’ hand. <em>Goodbye date night.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Here is the story of when he came home with a larger stack of papers than usual.</em> That is to say, here is when the protest plans were conceived.</p>
<p>Grantaire mostly lived with him then. That was back when they would share one blanket in the night and breakfast in the morning, when there was enough time for that and Grantaire liked to cook. Over easy eggs and fried rice this morning, while Enjolras sips hot tea and flips through the papers. “The best fried rice you’ll ever have,” he promises. <em>No coffee.</em></p>
<p>Combeferre had dropped the papers off an hour earlier while Grantaire hid in the bathroom.</p>
<p>“Do you ever plan on telling him?”</p>
<p>“Do you ever plan on telling Bahorel?”</p>
<p>He sticks his tongue out. They hadn’t begun biting so hard yet. As for right now, they only bite softly.</p>
<p>“Jokes on you, Apollo,” he says over the sizzling pan. “I’ll bet anything he already knows.”</p>
<p>“But he hasn’t said anything, thank god,” Enjolras mutters without thinking. He doesn’t mean it to sound so cold. Grantaire says nothing. “You said you’d bet <em>anything?”</em></p>
<p>Enjolras watches his mouth perk back up into a smile.“Anything,” he answers, pressing a kiss onto the arch of his eyebrow. The memory shivers beneath him as Enjolras realizes it’s been a long time since the last time Grantaire had kissed him there (or there, or there, or <em>there).</em></p>
<p>Grantaire pushes his papers out of the way, replacing them for a plate of breakfast. <em>“No revolution at the breakfast table,”</em> he teases. Enjolras takes a last glance at the paper in his hand but the words have gone to mush. The symbols have spoiled to something foreign and unrecognizable, his fingernail tracing the characters while he tries to make sense of it.</p>
<p>It’s no use. He looks back at Grantaire, except he’s not there, and the room has started spinning.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Here is the story of when they visit the lake during December.</em> It’s frozen over, dangerous to walk out on, but Grantaire insists that Enjolras hasn’t lived until he’s laid dead in the piercing cold darkness, counting the stars.</p>
<p>“What if the ice breaks and we fall in and drown?”</p>
<p>“That’s part of the fun, of course,” Grantaire assures him dismissively, so they take Enjolras’ car out to the nearest lake, wrapped up in parkas and mittens. Grantaire grasps Enjolras’ hands as they begin walking out onto the ice, and Enjolras is surprised to feel the skin once again warm and comforting and <em>natural.</em> He’s forgotten how nicely his hand fits into Grantaire’s. They slide around on the ice like clumsy idiots for a few minutes before they come across a section that Grantaire ensures is perfect, whatever that means.</p>
<p>“Lie down,” he commands, so Enjolras does. They are looking up at the constellations, moonlight bright enough to turn the night into day. They lie in a comfortable silence for a while, hands still touching at the fingertips in the space between them. Enjolras doesn’t know why he suddenly feels like crying.</p>
<p>After a while, Grantaire whispers, “What’s your favorite constellation?”</p>
<p>Enjolras hums while he thinks. “I only know a few. All the basic ones. Orion, the big dipper - actually, in grade school, I learned about the Corona Borealis, but I can’t remember what that one looks like.”</p>
<p>“Boooo,” Grantaire says in mock-ridicule. “Lame. You seem like you should know all of them.”</p>
<p>Enjolras rolls his eyes in the darkness but can't help laughing a little. “Fine, then. Which ones do you know?”</p>
<p>“Well,” Grantaire begins, raising his other hand to point at the heavens. “There’s Corvus. I feel like <em>you</em> should know Corvus, of all people,” and then he laughs at this like Enjolras is supposed to get the joke. “For the first time, I feel smarter than you.”</p>
<p>“You say smart things all the time,” he counters, and Grantaire beams. He points out a few more constellations to him and goes on about their stories and the elaborate mythology surrounding them.</p>
<p>“Have you ever heard that story about the sun and the moon? That the moon loved the sun so much that every night she killed herself for him?”</p>
<p>“Grim,” comments Enjolras. “But I think I’ve heard something like that before.” The stars have all begun bleeding into each other, one sparkly, mangled mess hovering above him.</p>
<p>Before all of this is taken from him, he interrupts whatever spiel Grantaire is going to launch into about the sun and the moon. “It feels nice to just be here, Grantaire,” he murmurs. “I could die. I feel happy. Like, right now, I don't have to think about the world or anything or feel guilty about it. I just feel content with you. I feel good.”</p>
<p>“I feel happy, too,” Grantaire whispers. If Enjolras forgets everything - the lake, the constellations, Grantaire, <em>this,</em> he must surely remember this feeling of rapture. Maybe after all of this, when Grantaire’s face means nothing to him, he’ll look up at the stars and wonder why his chest goes all light.</p>
<p>He swears he can still feel his fingertips against his own, but when Enjolras turns over Grantaire is gone and the ice cracks beneath him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Here is the story of a lazy September evening,</em> the one when Enjolras had been wrapped up in Grantaire all afternoon, watching old movies flick across the screen. <em>This is a good one,</em> he recalls.</p>
<p>“This is a good one,” says Grantaire, thumb rolling circles into Enjolras’ shoulder. <em>There was a time,</em> Enjolras realizes, <em>when these domesticities felt natural. “Rebel Without a Cause.</em> It’s kind of funny, I think, because it tries too hard to be deep. I think Sal Mineo is gay in this.”</p>
<p>“I don't think gay people were in movies until, like, 2005.”</p>
<p>“You’re supposed to be the smart one, Enj,” he laughs into his ear. Enjolras can’t help but lean into the closeness of his breath. “You’ll like this one. You’re kind of a <em>Rebel Without a Cause,</em> you know.”</p>
<p>“I <em>have a cause,” he mutters, and ignores Grantaire’s teasing: <em>‘not a very good one.’</em> “Does that make you Sal Mineo?”</em></p>
<p>He mocks a gasp. “Of course not. I’m Natalie Wood.” Grantaire rolls over so he’s on top of him, now. He adds, “Not quite as pretty as James Dean, but good in my own right.”</p>
<p>“You’re pretty,” murmurs Enjolras, and just because he can, he reaches a hand out and trails his thumb along Grantaire’s jaw until it reaches his earlobe. He likes how soft Grantaire gets when he says that, and even if it’s just an old memory he could stand to see it a hundred more times. He feels some wretched twist in his stomach when he realizes he won’t - there will one day be a time, very soon, when he won’t know the way Grantaire’s stubble feels on his skin or the way his breath feels against his neck. He takes Grantaire’s face into his hands, trying to hold it close so it might not disappear. He wants another kiss on the arch of his eyebrow.</p>
<p>“Kiss me,” he commands softly, and he doesn’t know if that much is in the script. “On the eyebrow.”</p>
<p>Grantaire gives him an amused look and kisses him. “And on the forehead,” he adds.</p>
<p>Grantaire kisses him between his eyebrows. “And on my jaw.”</p>
<p>Kiss. “And on my mouth.” Kiss. He had forgotten these things, and he will keep forgetting them, but for now he can keep them. For just a few minutes.</p>
<p>“Anywhere else, <em>Apollo?”</em> He laughs, and Enjolras feels something swell in him at the use of his pet name. Grantaire’s lips are brushing the side of his own, humming something he can’t quite make out. He nods his head furiously, and Grantaire presses one last kiss against his mouth while he fists Enjolras’ cotton shirt. <em>Is this how it went the first time?</em></p>
<p>He pushes it up, leaving lazy kisses along Enjolras’ navel, half-buried under a blanket. <em>They would share one blanket.</em> His nose is pressed against Enjolras’ hip, just above his waistband, as he undoes the top button of his pants. He wants to feel it again <em>(again?),</em> wants Grantaire to love him back like he used to <em>(like he is?),</em> and yet at the same time wants to pause it all right here, climb out of the operation and beg the doctors to let him live in this one forever.</p>
<p><em>“Grantaire,”</em> he whispers as the other boy slides his pants down and kisses him through his boxers. He lets out a little laugh at his eagerness and looks up at Enjolras, slipping his hand beneath his underwear band and tugging it down. He misses this part, the simplicity of it. <em>“Grantaire,”</em> he repeats.</p>
<p>He’s half-hard beneath him, and he twitches at the touch of Grantaire's fingers. Enjolras loves his hands most of all. He doesn’t have soft, smooth hands - he has hands that are often bandaged from messy days at the boxing ring or calloused from hours poured over a canvas. His fingers are long, slender, and rough, and when they touch his skin he feels like he is being peeled open in only the most delightful way. Grantaire lets one hand stroke along the length of his cock while his lips wrap around the head.</p>
<p>Enjolras can’t help but buck his hips slightly at the sensation, back arching up ever so slightly. Grantaire does <em>something</em> with his tongue, something familiar that Enjolras had forgotten he enjoyed so much, and it draws out a lewd noise from him. Grantaire’s hand continues working up and down on his shaft, moving faster and easier as his spit acts as a lubricant. He can feel the stubble on Grantaire’s thigh brush his inner thigh lightly and he shivers. A moan, barely audible, escapes him.</p>
<p>He can’t help himself. He threads a hand through Grantaire’s curls, trying to steady himself, but Grantaire just hums softly in the back of his throat, sending a subtle vibration through him, and Enjolras sees stars. He knows this part. This is the part when he starts losing control entirely. <em>“Fuck, Grantaire,”</em> he breathes, tilting his head back and rolling his hips up, into his mouth. <em>“You’re so good, you’re so good - you’re so beautiful, and lovely, and I love you,”</em> he spills out and Enjolras realizes that it’s the first time he’s said that in weeks and even now it's just a memory. <em>“I love you,”</em> he repeats, just because he can.</p>
<p>Grantaire takes his mouth off of him but continues stroking, instead burying his head at the base of his cock and murmuring something that Enjolras can’t make out. He can feel him smile against his leg. His hand quickens it’s pace, wet with saliva and precum. There is a pulsing feeling all around him and he knows he’s going to cum soon, but all he can think is <em>please let me keep this one, please let me keep this one memory, erase all the others, just let me keep this one,</em> and he is clutching the coils of Grantaire’s hair like it can keep him there, with him.</p>
<p>He feels Grantaire's mouth return to him with a renewed vigor and he knows it’s over, that he is going to release <em>right now</em> if he doesn't stop. Grantaire knows it too, can always tell by the way Enjolras’ toes curl and fingernails dig into his back. <em>“I can’t - I can’t - Grantaire,”</em> he gasps, and Grantaire looks up at him with big, watery eyes as his mouth moves up and down. Enjolras bucks his hips up and a moment later he is coming, Grantaire letting off of him with a satisfying <em>pop</em> noise. He feels hot ribbons of cum on his stomach.</p>
<p>He turns his gaze up, at the TV where a moment ago <em>Rebel Without a Cause</em> was playing, but it has since turned to static. It lets out a nauseating sizzle and the room suddenly feels like a dream. In a whisper, he repeats <em>please, please, don’t take this one from me, please -</em> but his hand grasps for Grantaire’s shoulders only to find nothing there, and he’s pushing away the blanket he should be wrapped in, only to reveal no one. The last thought that runs through his head before he wakes up in another memory is a frustrated <em>give it back.</em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>Here is the story of - </em>
</p>
<p>“They’re taking you away from me,” Enjolras vomits out when he opens his eyes on Grantaire's couch. This was one of the rare times Enjolras stayed at Grantaire’s, but the other boy needed to finish an art project and he was supposed to be keeping him company.</p>
<p>Grantaire doesn’t freak out how he expected. He gives Enjolras a meaningful look. “So don’t let them,” he says simply, returning to his work.</p>
<p>Enjolras jumps up from his seat on the couch. “Come on,” he tells him. “I can fix this. Maybe we can go somewhere. Maybe they won’t catch up with us.”</p>
<p>“But my project -”</p>
<p>“It’s all just going to turn to dust in a minute anyway, R,” he says, grabbing Grantaire’s hand. “We have to go <em>now.”</em> He tugs them both through the door but when they step outside they’re not in the apartment building’s hallway. They’re in the backroom of the Musain, sharing an iced tea.</p>
<p>
  <em> <em>“What the hell -” </em> </em>
</p>
<p>“Shit,” Enjolras whispers. <em>This is the story of the first time Grantaire attended a meeting.</em> “We can’t - they’re gonna take this one, too -”</p>
<p>He pulls both of them out of the Musain to find themselves in Bahorel’s apartment, into the Corinthe, into Grantaire’s art exhibition, around the map of memories he didn’t know he had, each one shouting at him that <em>this is the story of, this the story, this is, this is, this is.</em> They zip around each place and watch each memory crumble, the walls falling down like the pillars of Rome around them, the floor falling out from under them, stars blinking out overhead, faces scratching off their friend’s heads. Enjolras is frantically clutching Grantaire’s hand, trying to keep him close.</p>
<p>They wind up in the Lacuna Inc. lab, in the office of Dr. M. With one hand holding Grantaire’s, he uses his other bang a fist on the table.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to erase him,” he sputters out. “I want to keep him.”</p>
<p>Dr. M gives him a startled look. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>Enjolras bites his lip and digs his fingers into Grantaire, but doesn’t feel him squeeze back. He takes a cautious look at him to find him faceless and silent. Enjolras jumps back.</p>
<p>“But - I can’t -” he begins, but when he turns back to Dr. M, he’s gone. The floor disappears beneath him like the end of the world. <em>Shit. </em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>When Enjolras opens his eyes, he’s sitting upright in his bed, Grantaire half-asleep beside him. He feels a swell of heat in the middle of his face and tears well up behind his eyes. He presses a kiss on Grantaire’s temple and watches his eyes lazily flutter open. <em>This is the story of what it's like to wake up in bed with someone who loves you.</em></p>
<p>“Not gone yet,” he murmurs.</p>
<p>“No,” Enjolras says. “I think we have plenty more memories to go through.” Grantaire hums in agreement. He pushes a lock of hair out of his eyes and cups his cheek. “Wake up, R. I want my last moments with you to be when you’re conscious, at least.”</p>
<p>Grantaire lets out a groan at being forced awake. “So what now?”</p>
<p>“I want to stop it.”</p>
<p><em>“You want to stop everything,”</em> he laughs. “This is very like you. For the first time, I think I’m right in my cynicism.”</p>
<p>Enjolras gives him a look. “You don't usually think you’re right?”</p>
<p>“No. But you’re cute when you’re all… <em>revolutionary.”</em></p>
<p>He throws a pillow at him. A beat of comfortable silence slips between them. “I’m sorry I’m erasing you,” he says quietly, because he’s never been good at apologies.</p>
<p>Grantaire squeezes his hand. “I erased you first,” he says with a sad smile.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>“I think I know what to do,” Grantaire says when Enjolras opens his eyes to find himself on his couch a moment later, flicking through the late night channels. “They’re erasing memories of me, right? So if you take me somewhere I don't belong, a memory I’m not in, then they won't be able to find me, right?”</p>
<p>Enjolras snaps his head up at him. “That could work,” he says. “I don’t know how to do that, though.”</p>
<p>Grantaire ponders this for a moment. “Try thinking of somewhere without me. Think really hard and try to remember somewhere without me.”</p>
<p>Enjolras wracks his brain for a moment, but it’s turned to mush and he can’t focus on anything. “I… can’t remember anything,” he admits. <em>“I can’t think of anything without you.”</em></p>
<p>Grantaire turns red around his ears, something Enjolras had forgotten that he liked so much. “That's very sweet,” he says. “But try, okay?” He presses a kiss onto Enjolras’ jaw.</p>
<p>“That doesn’t help, you know,” he teases, and Grantaire sticks his tongue out at him. He steadies himself and tries to recall life before he met him. Was there life before Grantaire?</p>
<p><em>Be rational,</em> he tells himself. If he met him just over two years ago, in freshman year in college, then any high school memory would be clean of him.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says. “I think I have one.”</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p><em>A moment later they’re in his old high school gym,</em> all done up in streamers and balloons. Prom night, which he remembers being excessively underwhelming and which he hadn’t even planned on going in the first place except Courfeyrac made him.</p>
<p>“You’re so <em>cute!”</em> He hears Grantaire beam at him. He looks down at himself - he’s wearing a tuxedo a size too big for him, and this was before he knew how to tame his frizzy curls. He’s not wearing his contacts, either, because in high school he thought he would look <em>cooler</em> in glasses. He was wrong.</p>
<p>He makes an embarrassed noise in the back of his throat and scrunches his nose up at Grantaire, who is still clad in his jeans and t-shirt. Still, he looks younger, like must have looked in high school, shoulders not quite as broad and not quite as fit, having not yet started boxing. His hair is longer and more rebellious. “I do <em>not.</em> I look <em>stupid.”</em></p>
<p>“You do look stupid,” he agrees. “But cute.” Enjolras rolls his eyes at him. “I always wondered what you were like in high school. You were probably super angsty and always fighting in class, and I bet you ate lunch with your english teacher -”</p>
<p>“I was in GSA,” he interrupts, shutting his eyes tight with embarrassment. “I was… the <em>leader</em> of our school’s GSA.”</p>
<p><em>“GSA,”</em> Grantaire repeats in mock-ridicule. <em>“Of course</em> you were.”</p>
<p>“Okay, <em>R,” </em>he laughs. “What were <em>you</em> like in high school?”</p>
<p>He watches Grantaire look up at the ceiling, making a face as he recalls his undoubtedly dismal high school experience. “Well… I was not a very good student, which I’m sure comes as no surprise. But my teachers liked me, even though they hated me academically. I hung out with my art teacher during lunch. And I was in wrestling.”</p>
<p>“Wrestling?”</p>
<p>Grantaire nods. “That was gay enough to be our schools GSA. It’s how I met Bahorel and Feuilley, too.”</p>
<p>Enjolras spots Courfeyrac and Combeferre in the crowd of dancers and taking Grantaire’s hand, quickly ducks into a dark, lonely corner where they won’t be disturbed. He’s not sure how he would explain who <em>this</em> was.</p>
<p>“I can’t believe you even went to prom,” Grantaire laughs once they’re more secluded.</p>
<p>“Courf’ made me” he groans. “I didn’t even plan on going until three days before.”</p>
<p>“So, Enj,” he teases. “Was this like, the night you lost your virginity? Did you meet someone across the dance floor and rent a motel room like a teen coming-of-age movie?”</p>
<p>“God no,” he says. “I was barely 18 and awkward and gawky -”</p>
<p>“And cute,” adds Grantaire. Enjolras rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>“And no one wanted to have sex with me. Anyway,” he continues, “I lost my virginity to you.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” says Grantaire, and gives him a quick, chaste kiss. Then he waggles his eyebrows. “I remember that.”</p>
<p>“I mean… not anymore,” Enjolras laughs bitterly. “I won’t either.”</p>
<p>Grantaire boos him. “This is supposed to be a <em>fun</em> night. And you’re making it all <em>angsty.”</em></p>
<p>“It <em>wasn’t</em> a fun night. I sat by myself at a table for three hours and didn’t talk to anybody or dance with anyone.”</p>
<p>Grantaire studies him for a moment as the music shifts into a bouncy synth-pop song. “We can change that, you know. We’re here -”</p>
<p>“Not <em>really -”</em></p>
<p>“Who careesss,” Grantaire groans. “We can change the ending, okay? And, besides, it’s <em>Bizarre Love Triangle.</em> You’re really not going to dance to <em>Bizarre Love Triangle?</em></p>
<p>Enjolras makes a face but doesn’t protest as Grantaire drags him onto the dance floor. He stands there awkwardly as the other boy pushes his shoulders back and forth and bobs his head to the tune in dancey movements that might have been embarrassing had Grantaire cared about looking cool. <em>“Come on,”</em> he urges him. “This might be the last time we get to dance together.”</p>
<p>So he lets Grantaire take his hands and pull them back and forth, mimicking a jumpy swing dance. He follows his feet, doing a sloppy two-step with him. “See?” Grantaire says, almost shouting over the chorus of the song. “You’re not so bad when I make you dance.” He knows he’s bad, but he knows Grantaire just likes to see him happy.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Dr. M is frantically trying to fix the map of memories on the machine. There’s something like a dot that seems to be jumping around Enjolras’ brain, and for the past half hour he’s been trying to pin it down and erase it.</p>
<p>“How did it even get there?” His colleague asks. “I don't think I’ve ever seen this before.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes people are <em>rebellious</em>,” he mutters. “There. I’ve got it.”</p>
<p>
  <em>  </em>
</p>
<p>On the dance floor, the song's outro is fading into repetition. <em>I’m waiting for that final moment when you say the words that I can’t say. I’m waiting for that final moment. I’m waiting.</em></p>
<p>Enjolras has loosened himself up around Grantaire by now, jumping around a bit and unable to suppress a smile. The room is spinning in an array of loose glitter and blue prom lighting and it feels like a dream. <em>Say the words that I can’t say.</em></p>
<p>“Grantaire -” he begins, looking up at the other boy, but he has disappeared, and so has everyone else at the prom, and suddenly he is alone on the dance floor.</p>
<p>
  <em>  </em>
</p>
<p>“I don't think there’s anything we can do,” he says a moment later, when he awakes in Grantaire’s arms. <em>This was the first time Grantaire had slept over.</em> He had felt like a teenager the whole night, giddy and excited and stomach fluttering at every touch of skin.</p>
<p>“Probably not,” Grantaire hums. “So what do we do?”</p>
<p>Enjolras thinks for a moment. He is not the type to give up but he doesn’t know if he can handle watching Grantaire’s face strip off of his head, or to try reaching out and touching him just for him to disappear again. <em>“Enjoy it,”</em> he murmurs.</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says, and presses a kiss into the palm of Grantaire’s hand.</p>
<p>
  <em>  </em>
</p>
<p><em>Here is the story of the second time they met, a few days after the first, in a bookstore.</em> Well, the cafe of Barnes and Noble, because Grantaire doesn’t really go to bookstores. Enjolras had seen that head of back curls waiting for coffee (he had wrinkled his nose at the smell of coffee, but he felt a lightness when he saw Grantaire).</p>
<p>“Hey, stranger,” he says to him. Grantaire is playing with a packet of sugar.</p>
<p>“Not quite a stranger anymore,” he retorts. “Not like we were when you really met me here that first time.”</p>
<p>“Have we ever been strangers? It doesn't feel like it.” The barista calls out <em>R</em> and Grantaire collects his coffee.</p>
<p>Grantaire nods. “You asked me if I remembered you and I said <em>sure.</em> Do you remember what else I said?”</p>
<p>“How could I forget?”</p>
<p><em>“By erasing your memories.</em> Anyway,” he says, “I said: ‘Too many guys think I’m a concept, or I complete them, or I’m gonna make them alive. But I’m just a fucked-up alcoholic who’s looking for my own peace of mind; don’t assign me yours.’ And you looked so shocked, but you didn’t turn away.”</p>
<p>“You were like no one I had never met,” Enjolras says. “And you weren’t even an alcoholic at the time.”</p>
<p>“I was never an alcoholic, no matter how many times you insisted I was over the course of our relationship. But I wanted to scare you.”</p>
<p>Grantaire sips his coffee and makes a face. “I haven’t drank coffee in so long because of you, you know that? You made me good for a while. I like that about you.”</p>
<p>A dimple forms in Enjolras’ cheek as he smiles at him, but it’s a sad smile and he knows if he’s not careful, tears are going to drop. “Maybe if we could do it all again, it would have a different ending,” he starts. “I think so. I think if I could find you again, if I could just remember it, then it would be different. We would be good.”</p>
<p>“We <em>were</em> good,” Grantaire insists. “Even in the very end, we were good. We just slipped up. I got scared. <em>You </em>got scared.”</p>
<p>There’s a wavering silence as the cafe goers begin to blink out around them. The smell of coffee is beginning to fade. “Maybe we can do it again. Just try your best to remember, okay? We can do it again.” As Grantaire disappears, the cup of coffee drops onto the linoleum tiles and spills around Enjolras’ feet.</p>
<p>
  <em>  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The first time Enjolras sees Grantaire, it is, of course, not at any boxing ring. This is before Enjolras had even met Bahorel. The first time Enjolras sees Grantaire, they’re at the beach.<br/>
</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It’s cold, and even if it wasn’t Enjolras is not a bathing suit type of guy. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater, sitting on a towel near Courfeyrac and Combeferre, watching the pretty man in the green hoodie walk along the edge of the water. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “He’s cute,” Courfeyrac says, which makes Enjolras’ face go red. “You should talk to him.” </em>
</p>
<p><em><em><em><em>“Enjolras doesn’t do those types of things,” Combeferre reminds him. “He’s far too </em></em></em></em>preoccupied.<em><em><em>" </em></em></em></p>
<p>
  <em>Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Normal people don’t just walk up to strangers on the beach.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A moment later, though, the pretty man is standing next to Enjolras, looking down at him. “I’m Grantaire,” he says simply. “I caught you staring. Can I have some of your water?” </em>
</p>
<p><em> Bewildered, Enjolras nods and hands him the bottle. Grantaire takes a swig happily, casually, like they’ve known each other forever.</em> Thats weird, <em>Enjolras thinks, but Grantaire does it with an intimacy that makes Enjolras feel like they’re just meant to know each other. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>When he’s done drinking, he hands it back and says, “Okay, get all the jokes out.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“What?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“About my name. I know you have them. Grand-R, R, I know you’re thinking of them.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Enjolras laughs. “I was. People call you R?”</em>
</p>
<p><em>“I </em>let <em>people call me R,” he says, plopping down next to him on the towel. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>“I think Grantaire is a very nice name,” Enjolras says. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Grantaire gives him a pleased look. “What’s your name, then?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"Enjolras."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>  </em>
</p>
<p>“And then I said that your hair made you look more like an <em>Apollo,”</em> recalls Grantaire, leaning back on his hands.</p>
<p>“That made me so embarrassed,” cringes Enjolras.</p>
<p>“Why? Apollos super hot.”</p>
<p>Enjolras gives him a look. “That’s why I was so embarrassed, because I thought <em>you</em> were really hot, and then you called me that, and -” he punctuates it with a noise in the back of his throat.</p>
<p>“You thought I was hot?”</p>
<p>“It’s the world's greatest shame that you don't realize how hot you are, Grantaire.”</p>
<p>“The world’s <em>greatest</em> shame? I can think of worse things,” he muses.</p>
<p>“Name one.”</p>
<p>Grantaire studies him. “You erasing me. Me erasing you. <em>This.”</em></p>
<p>A light drizzle of rain has clouded around them, the air damp and cold. “Why did you have to erase me?” Enjolras hears himself ask. Before Grantaire can respond, he adds, “No, don’t tell me. If it’s because you fell out of love, or something, I don’t want to know -”</p>
<p>“Are you kidding?” Grantaire gapes. “Me? Out of love? What about <em>you?”</em></p>
<p>Enjolras inhales sharply and squeezes his eyes shut. “I never fell out of love with you. I couldn’t ever do that,” he lets the words fall out, finally. “But around you, I just… I stopped liking the person I was around you. That’s not fair, I know. I was never a bad person. But I couldn’t think of anything other than you, and I was spending more and more time with you instead of at the Musain, and the worst part of it was that I <em>liked</em> that. I liked being with you, and I felt so guilty about it.” A beat passes. “But <em>you</em> erased me first.”</p>
<p>Grantaire is biting his lip. “If you think it’s because I stopped loving you, or something,” he begins. “I left because I couldn’t stop loving you even though I knew you had stopped. Or I thought you had stopped. Whatever.</p>
<p>I thought you fell out of love with me, and I knew that I could never just stop like you, or move on, and if I ever wanted to be a normal person again, that you would have to just… be gone from me. I couldn’t live with the hurt of losing you. I’ve always been kind of, um, <em>lazy,”</em> he laughs the last part out regretfully.</p>
<p>“Why couldn’t we ever just talk to each other?”</p>
<p>“We’re too stubborn,” Grantaire says. <em>“I’m sorry.”</em></p>
<p>“I know you are. I am, too.” A few beats of comfortable silence. Grantaire changes the topic.</p>
<p>“Do you remember what we did that night? After Courf’ and ‘Ferre left?” He stands up, offering Enjolras his hand.</p>
<p>He takes it. “Of course,” he says.</p>
<p>They begin walking along the water, the sun throwing glassy shards of light along the waves in that finale before it finally sets. They trudge in the sand, grains finding their way into their shoes and socks. They walk until they come across a beautiful beach house, three stories and complete with a porch and two balconies.</p>
<p>“I still want to live here,” he says.</p>
<p>“Me too,” Enjolras concurs.</p>
<p>“With you, I mean.”</p>
<p>“Me too.”</p>
<p>“I knocked on the door,” Grantaire reminisces. “I knocked on the door, and when no one answered, I started testing the windows, until one opened -” he tries a few windows, the last one on the front porch opening up for him. “This one.”</p>
<p>“I was so scared,” Enjolras remembers. “I thought we were going to get caught, and taken to prison, or that they would be home, and I wanted to come in with you but I was so scared.”</p>
<p>Grantaire has already crawled through the window. “You’re so anti-trespassing for a <em>rebel,”</em> he calls from inside the house. “You can still come in, you know.”</p>
<p>Enjolras takes a nervous step back. “I really wanted to. It seemed fun - <em>you</em> seemed fun, and exciting, and I wanted to - but I didn't - I just took a few steps back and ran home.” He takes another step back.</p>
<p>“That made me sad. I didn't know where you went. I thought that you probably thought I was crazy,” Grantaire calls, a voice with no face.</p>
<p>“I did think you were crazy, but that's not why I left,” he assures. “I was scared.” He takes another step back.</p>
<p>“Are you scared now?” Sand is filling up everywhere, a whirlwind of dust around him. The ceiling of the house is caving in. He takes another step back.</p>
<p>“No,” he decides. “I wish that I had stayed. I wish I had at least said goodbye without disappearing. I really wish I had stayed. There are a lot of things I wish I had done, but mostly, I wish that I had stayed.”</p>
<p>The distant voice calls out again. <em>“So stay,” </em>it says. “Come back to me. We can change the ending, we can change the script. We can pretend we had a goodbye, at least. We can make one up.” Sand is pressed between his fingernails. He gulps and his throat is full of dust.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says, and he climbs through the window.</p>
<p>Inside, Grantaire is waiting for him, curls dusted with sand. He cups Enjolras’ face in his hands. <em>“Who has been unhooking the stars without my permission?”</em></p>
<p>He lets the tears fall, the wet mixing with sand to make stretches of clay across his cheeks. “I love you, do you know that?” He presses a kiss into him, feeling the softness of his lips on his, the brush of stubble on his own skin. He tries to relish it. There is no sand between them.</p>
<p>“I love you too,” he hears Grantaire whisper. <em>“Come back to me, okay?”</em></p>
<p>Enjolras tries to pull him even closer into him but suddenly his arms are empty and the ceiling is crashing down.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>The first thing Enjolras thinks about when he wakes up is that he’s <em>hungry.</em> And that his apartment is even colder than usual. He calls Combeferre.</p>
<p>“Want to get breakfast at the Musain?”</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>An hour later they sit at their regular table, sipping tea and eating breakfast sandwiches.</p>
<p>“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks him. Enjolras gives him a confused, albeit amused look.</p>
<p>“Why shouldn’t I be?”</p>
<p>Combeferre eyes him. “Just making sure.”</p>
<p>They continue eating in a pleasant silence, both of them reading over documents pertaining to the upcoming protest that weekend. “I’ve got to get this over to Bahorel later today,” mentions Combeferre absently. “That’ll be a pain. I have this whole day with Courf’ planned.”</p>
<p>“I could do it,” Enjolras suggests. “I’m free all day.”</p>
<p>Combeferre snaps his head up at him. <em>“No,”</em> he assures him. “Don’t. Um. I can do it, it’s fine. I was being overdramatic.”</p>
<p>Enjolras gives him an amused look. “Are <em>you</em> okay?”</p>
<p>Combeferre offers him a chagrined smile. “Of course,” he says. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom. Look, if you really want to do me a favor, can you pay for this while I’m gone?”</p>
<p>Enjolras nods his head at him as he watches him leave. He pays - and then collects the document Combeferre was looking over. He knows Bahorel boxes early in the morning - the ring isn’t too far from his apartment, and anyway, he’s never been very obedient.</p>
<p>When Combeferre returns from the bathroom, Enjolras is gone, and so are all of his papers.</p>
<p><em>“Shit,”</em> he whispers.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p><em>[Unbeknownst to him,] the</em> second <em>time Enjolras sees Grantaire, he knows that he is in for the worst. It’s hard to expect good things when the first you see of somebody is them beating someone into a bloody pulp.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Of course Enjolras follows Grantaire onto the bus. When he sees him pivot on that top step and asks Enjolras to follow him, he feels a strange, indescribable lightness in his chest, an inexplicable bliss and he can't stop himself.</p>
<p>On the ride to Enjolras’ apartment, Grantaire is looking at his boots.</p>
<p>“I used to have a pair just like that,” he comments. “I don’t know where they went, actually.”</p>
<p>“That’s weird,” Enjolras says. “I can’t actually remember where I got these.”</p>
<p>“That <em>is</em> weird.”</p>
<p>Grantaire looks around the empty bus, then out the window. “Look,” he says, gesturing to the passing trees. “I grew up here. My house just passed by.”</p>
<p>“I don't think I’ve ever been here,” Enjolras says. “At least, not in passing.”</p>
<p>“That’s a shame,” Grantaire hums. “I went to high school there. I was a wrestler back then.”</p>
<p>“Wrestling? You didn’t box?”</p>
<p>Grantaire shakes his head. “They didn’t offer boxing. What were you like in high school? I bet you were a good student.”</p>
<p>Enjolras laughs. He was. “I was,” he says. “I was - <em>God,</em> I was the leader of GSA.”</p>
<p>Grantaire laughs, too. “So what are you now? Let me guess - ex-leader of GSA, talking with Bahorel about that protest stuff - are you a politi-sci major?”</p>
<p>Enjolras nods in the embarrassment at having been read so easily. “Yeah, it’s all boring stuff. What about you?”</p>
<p>“I'm an art major. Make fun of me all you want.”</p>
<p>“I won't. Are you any good?”</p>
<p>“The best,” assures Grantaire. “But I’ve been a bit uninspired lately, I admit. No inspiration. I thought maybe my boyfriend would inspire me, but he doesn’t. I think I have to break up with him - is that fair? To break up with someone because they’re not… <em>pretty</em> enough?”</p>
<p>Enjolras decides to be bold. “I could be your muse, if you like.”</p>
<p>Grantaire gives him an amused smile. “You’re more than pretty enough,” he considers. “Sure. Let me study you, muse.” He picks up Enjolras’ hand and runs his fingers over his veins, the palm, his fingernails. “You’ll make a good muse.”</p>
<p>The bus stops suddenly in front of Enjolras’ apartment building. “This is my stop,” he says a bit dejectedly. “I have to -”</p>
<p>“I can come - can I come? It’s not fair, you know. We’ve barely just met and I don't even have your number.”</p>
<p>Enjolras gulps. “Sure,” he says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That afternoon, they share a lunch of sandwiches and tea, but agree to meet the next day. Grantaire suggests the beach, which he says will probably be deserted this time of year because it’s so cold. Enjolras agrees because he doesn’t really care where they are, so long as he can spend the day with him.</p>
<p>They take the bus together at noon and arrive there at 1. It’s mostly deserted, save for the odd couple they encounter while strolling beside the water. “We should have come here at night,” Grantaire says. “The stars look so pretty reflected in the water.”</p>
<p>“Are you into astronomy?”</p>
<p>“I know constellations,” he says. “Actually, I can’t name any off the top of my head, but I know I know them.”</p>
<p>“Fair enough,” says Enjolras. “I don’t know any.”</p>
<p>“That’s a shame. But a bit unsurprising. You seem more like a sun guy than a night guy, Apollo.”</p>
<p><em>“Apollo?”</em> Echoes Enjolras.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” says Grantaire, giving him a pleased look. “You look like him. Full of light.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” he says, turning pink. “Well, um, thanks -”</p>
<p><em>“Wow,”</em> he hears Grantaire breathe, stopping in his tracks. “Look at that house. That’s a beautiful house. Every house by the sea is lovely - wouldn’t you just love to live there? And then you could see the water everyday.”</p>
<p>“It <em>is</em> lovely,” says Enjolras, looking at Grantaire.</p>
<p>Grantaire grabs his hand and makes a running start toward the house. “What are we -” Enjolras begins, following him in confusion.</p>
<p>“Maybe no one’s home,” says Grantaire, knocking on the door. Enjolras gets a sick, excited feeling. “Maybe we could just… <em>slip in.”</em></p>
<p>“Is this… legal?”</p>
<p>“No,” says Grantaire quickly. “But that shouldn’t stop us.” Enjolras feels something warm in his belly.</p>
<p>“Let’s try a window,” Grantaire says, attempting to push open the one near the door. When it doesn’t work, he moves to the next one, and then the one after that, and keeps moving until one finally opens - the one on the end of the porch.</p>
<p>“Look,” he says, slipping through the window. “They left their window open - they’re practically begging us to break in.”</p>
<p>Enjolras takes a nervous step back. “Grantaire?” he asks nervously.</p>
<p>“Are you coming?” Calls his voice from inside. He wants to. He wants to climb in, sprawl out on their huge couch with Grantaire, drink their wine, spill it on their carpet. But there’s a fear, a hesitation pulling inside of him. “Are you coming?” The voice repeats.</p>
<p>He wants to. So he does.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A few hours later, they return to Enjolras’ apartment building, Grantaire promising him he’ll make the best fried rice the man has ever tasted. But when they reach the top of the staircase to Enjolras’ floor, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are already waiting outside the door.</p>
<p>“I <em>told</em> you, Courf,’” Combeferre says upon seeing them. “I told you he was going to come home with him.”</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>fuck,”</em> Coufeyrac mutters.</p>
<p>Grantaire and Enjolras share a confused look. “Um, hi guys,” he says to them. “This is Grantaire -”</p>
<p>“We know,” Courfeyrac says. Combeferre swats his arm. “What? If they’re just gonna go through this again, after everything, they at least have a right to know.”</p>
<p>“What are you talking about?”</p>
<p>The two of them give the other two a pointed look. “So it worked,” says Courfeyrac, bewildered. “You really have no idea who that is?”</p>
<p><em>“What?</em> Should I?”</p>
<p>“Enjolras -?”</p>
<p>Courfeyrac gives Combeferre a pleading look. <em>“They have a right to know,”</em> he repeats.</p>
<p>Combeferre bites his lip. “Fine,” he gives in. “Come on, you two. You’re coming with us.”</p>
<p>“What? Where are we going?” Enjolras asks.</p>
<p>“Lacuna Inc. Labs.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Courfeyrac pushes past the secretary at the front telling them to make an appointment. He heads straight to the office of one Dr. M. When he and Combeferre enter with a confused Enjolras and Grantaire trailing behind them, he bangs his fist on the table.</p>
<p>“You have to - I don't know - <em>undo it.”</em></p>
<p>Dr. M nearly jumps out of his seat. “What? We don't -”</p>
<p>The secretary appears in the doorway. “Sorry, doctor, I told them to make an appointment,” she says exasperatedly.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry,” he assures her. “I’ll handle this.” She nods and disappears down the hall.</p>
<p>“We can’t just <em>undo</em> it. That’s not how the operation works,” he continues. “If they’ve… <em>reconnected,</em> there are measures we can take to show them glimpses of their life before the operation, but we cannot reverse the operation.”</p>
<p>Courfeyrac breathes deeply out of his nose. “This fucking - this shouldn’t even be a service. <em>You shouldn't just let people do this.” </em></p>
<p>“Does anyone want to tell us what exactly is going on?” Grantaire pipes up. The room turns to face him. Combeferre raises his eyebrows expectantly at Dr. M.</p>
<p>“I’ll handle this. If you two could wait in the lobby -?” He suggests, gesturing at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They share an unsteady look but oblige.</p>
<p>Once they’re gone, Dr. M encourages them both to take a seat. “Here at Lacuna Inc., we perform operations on the brain. One of our most popular operations includes erasing the memories of people who have experienced some sort of loss,” he explains.</p>
<p>“Loss?” Enjolras questions. “What are you saying?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dr. M breathes in. “In short, you two are not strangers,” he explains tentatively. “If you met today, or recently, that was not your first time meeting. If I remember correctly, you two shared an intimate relationship that began two years ago and ended within the past two weeks.”</p>
<p><em>“What,” </em>says Grantaire. “We - we know each other?”</p>
<p>“Not anymore. This is <em>highly</em> unusual, Grantaire. Typically, after operations, the two participants never meet again - and if they do, they never form any lasting connection. But you two bumped into each other not once, but twice in the past few days. We are very sorry about that.”</p>
<p><em>“You’re sorry?”</em> asks an infuriated Enjolras. “Is that it?”</p>
<p>“Both of you signed a contract agreeing not to sue us, although you don’t remember that. The two of you were more than willing to undergo this operation.”</p>
<p>Grantaire bites on his lip hard. “Do you have - is there anything -”</p>
<p>“You have given us and we have collected any personal belongings that may have had any attachment to your previous relationship.”</p>
<p>Enjolras shudders at the word <em>previous.</em> “Can we see them?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” assures Dr. M. He hesitates, and then adds, “We also have… recordings of a pre-procedure evaluation, in which the two of you had to state your, uh… <em>rationale</em> for undergoing the operation.”</p>
<p><em>“I would like to hear those,”</em> Enjolras says quickly. Dr. M gives Grantaire a prying look, who can only nod in agreement.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>“Grantaire doesn’t give a shit about anything.</em> He’s good for nothing - <em>unless you consider being an asshole a talent. Grantaire… I don't like how I am around him. He makes me unproductive. He’s a distraction. All he does is drink and argue with me, and I’ve never seen him do an ounce of work in my life. He’s a fucking - he’s an alcoholic, you know that? He is incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying.” </em></p>
<p>The recording continues like this for some time, another good 5 minutes of Enjolras ranting. Sitting next to each other in the office, the two of them haven't made eye contact since it began playing. Finally, he closes his thoughts up.</p>
<p>
  <em>“It’s weird, you know? I’ve spent so much time with him. 2 years. All that time, just to wind up in the shithole I’m in now. You spend that much time with someone, only for him to become a stranger.”</em>
</p>
<p>Enjolras doesn’t risk looking at Grantaire. The voice in the recording hardly sounds like him, and yet he knows it is. It’s strange, like listening to a dream version of yourself, or a past life - a version of you that is you and at the same time not you at all. He can hear Grantaire breathing deeply next to him, like he’s trying to hold something down.</p>
<p>Not that Grantaire’s recording is any better.</p>
<p><em>“Enjolras isn’t capable of</em> loving <em>people. He’s cold. He’ll ignore you, and undermine you, and - and - and he’ll make it clear he thinks that you’re the most worthless person on earth, and then he’ll make</em> you <em>feel like the heartless one. But really, Enjolras is the most heartless person I’ve ever met. I could drop dead and Enjolras wouldn’t give me a second thought. And he thinks he’s this - this - he thinks he’s this fucking </em>revolutionary, <em>that he’s gonna lead the revolution, but he’s not even capable of basic love and kindness.”</em></p>
<p>He feels something twist inside his stomach - not hatred, or defensiveness, but something more like hurt. He feels like he is sitting next to someone who is at once a stranger and an old friend. Somebody that he knew and who knew him, but who has since turned blurry. Finally, the tape runs out, and Dr. M awkwardly places the two cassettes on his desk.</p>
<p>“I'm sorry that you regret your decision, but if you don't mind me saying - I hope you two aren’t turned off from each other forever,” he says, attempting to console them. They give him horrified stares. “These recordings - they’re always done when our patients are at the worst, most emotional points in their life. These words are always spoken out of proportion. And, if it’s any consolation, the attachment that you two had with each other must have been a great thing, if it led to that much hurt.”</p>
<p>They remain silent. “Two people who, against all odds, continue to reunite like this, given the circumstances - that must mean something, mustn't it?”</p>
<p>They can hardly hear him over the thoughts racing through their heads. “I’m sorry, doctor,” Grantaire cuts him off. “I think we - I think <em>I,</em> at least, should go.”</p>
<p>Dr. M gives them a sorry look as they collect their boxes of memoirs on their way out the door. At the top of his box, there is a sketch of him peeking out. It’s a messy, rough sketch, all hard lines. But he is depicted as something great, a halo around his head, a gleam in his eyes.</p>
<p>“Apollo,” comments Grantaire over his shoulder, and for a moment he thought Grantaire had been calling him. “I think it’s supposed to be you as, uh, Apollo.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” says Enjolras, who had, at the word <em>Apollo</em> felt something swell inside him. He looks Grantaire in the face, and thinks dully, <em>I have probably kissed that face.</em> Something in him aches to kiss it again, but he suppresses it. <em>“Grantaire -”</em></p>
<p>“Look, Enj,” Grantaire interjects. “Before you say anything, I need to say this: Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm gonna make them alive. But I'm just a fucked-up boy who's looking for my own peace of mind; don't assign me yours.”</p>
<p>Enjolras takes a nervous step back, watching Grantaire turn around and begin down the hallway. He feels like there must be <em>something</em> between them, a lack of closure, a story waiting to be told, a story that's already been told. He wants to follow him down the hallway and beg because he’s never begged for anything, wants to go back and change it all so it works, wants to make it work now. He wants a lot of things, but mostly he wants Grantaire. An unknown voice in his head whispers <em>so stay. </em></p>
<p>He starts after him, stopping when he’s just behind him. “Grantaire,” he repeats, and watches him turn around. “I just wanted to say that I - uh, <em>I really like you.</em> And that I don’t think that you’re good for nothing, or worthless or - or anything I said on that tape.”</p>
<p>“But you <em>will,”</em> Grantaire interrupts.</p>
<p>“Look - I know that I’m not good at saying <em>I love you</em> and I know that I can be cold - but you make me feel happy. And <em>excited.</em> I can’t see anything about you I don’t like. And I don't think Ive ever met anyone like you before. Except for the first time we did this, probably.”</p>
<p>Grantaire is giving him a sad smile. “You’re going to get exhausted of me. I’m too much for people. You’re going to get exhausted and I’m going to get bored, or selfish, or whatever, because that’s what I do. And you’re too sweet for that.”</p>
<p>He turns to leave again, but Enjolras takes a step forward. “But - but - we can change the ending. If we’ve done it before, we can change the ending. It doesn’t have to be that way.”</p>
<p>Grantaire considers him, saying nothing. Enjolras continues. “I think um - I think these are your boots.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I think these are yours. You said you had a pair just like these that you lost, and I can’t remember where I got these, and I bet that we’re both size twelves, and um, I think these are your boots.”</p>
<p>Grantaire looks at his boots, pensive. “I think those are my boots, too.”</p>
<p>“I think we can change the ending,” Enjolras repeats.</p>
<p>“You think you can change everything,” Grantaire hears himself say, taking a step closer. “But you’re going to get sick of me.”</p>
<p>Enjolras is breathing heavily, heart pounding in his chest. “So let me get sick of you, please. I want to be sick.”</p>
<p>A smile that Grantaire can’t suppress spreads over his face. “Okay,” he says softly.</p>
<p>“Okay?”</p>
<p>“We can try,” laughs Grantaire. “We can try changing the ending.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi folks!!! i hope you enjoyed reading this, it's been an idea stuck in my head for quite some time now :) this was my first time writing smut lol</p>
<p> if ur reading this im madly in love w u lets kiss </p>
<p>  <a href="https://seravph.tumblr.com">come say hello on tumblr!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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